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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22511560">Golden</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchoutforbats/pseuds/watchoutforbats'>watchoutforbats</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett, Inspired by Good Omens - Fandom, Original Work, Sorta - Fandom, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Based on a Fall Out Boy Song, Biblical Charaters, But I had fun, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Four Horsemen, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Inspired by Good Omens, Modern Era, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Poetry, Sad, Short, Sort Of, Writing Exercise, basically modern horsemen, death is they/them btw, i posted this once before but took it down cuz i was nervous, its the four horsemen, modern gods.... but not gods, plus Pollution, this was depressing to write</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:22:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22511560</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchoutforbats/pseuds/watchoutforbats</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>How cruel is the golden rule<br/>When the lives we lived are only golden-plated?</p><p>And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me<br/>And though I carry karats for everyone to see</p><p>And I saw God cry in the reflection of my enemies<br/>And all the lovers with no time for me<br/>And all of the mothers raise their babies<br/>To stay away from me</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>the four horsemen of the apocalypse are waiting.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Golden</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hey... thanks for clicking! this is kind of depressing tbh. but I'm super proud of it and my mediocre writing skills. this is loosely based on good omens (that's where i got the idea to write pollution as a horseman, even though she technically isn't.) please note that Death uses they/them pronouns. the title and summary are from fall out boy's Golden. this isn't a song fic, but i felt Golden really fit it well. Please point out mistakes or places to improve! i want to write better.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>FAMINE sits alone. The city roars around her. The tattered blanket around her shoulder’s contrasts sharply against her pale skin. The bitter winter wind has snowflakes tangled in her graying hair. Her eyes are dull and her cheeks are sunken; she hasn’t eaten in months. The city passes her by. Nobody spares a glance. Kindness is not an option. </p><p>A small boy hands her a dollar. He smiles. His family will not eat this Christmas. He must know. Age does not equal naivety, she knows this from experience, yet still he gives. He will be out on the streets before he is fifteen. Famine cannot save him. She does not save. She leaves ruins in her path. Hunger, thirst, cold, once these were her doing. Now she has the common business man doing her job for her. They hunger for something more than food. Power and money leave trails of broken hearts. </p><p>Her bones ache when she stands.  The shadow of her warmth on the stone wall is quickly washed away by the swirling December winds. She has not left her post for years. Still, she stands. Hope has evaded her for so long. Humans seem completely irredeemable. Kindness is not something she takes lightly. She hands the dollar to the worn-down cashier working the night shift at the local 7/11. In a raspy voice, she asked for it to be paid forward. The cashier barley acknowledges her. The bell chimes and Famine disappears into the snowy streets. She isn’t gone.</p><p>She’s never gone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>PESTILENCE stands in the waiting room. The hospital is quiet. Someone has died. He wears doctor’s scrubs but he is not here to heal. He is never here to heal. This place reeks of illness. Someone is crying. Pestilence does not comfort. There is no comfort from this sickness. There is no end to the waiting.</p><p>The hospital once was a place of healing. Now only the richest or the most desperate come here. Health is a privilege most can’t afford. Medicines are created to save people, but these days they rarely leave their shelfs. People spread lies, using their technology. They tell stories of how medicines are poison and cures will kill. Pestilence does not have to kill. They have created their own illness. Ignorance will destroy them. They will be their own downfall. Pestilence waits.</p><p>A girl is tugging on his pant leg. She can’t be older than four. Her mother has died of a cancer that spread too soon. This girl has the same sickness and she will surely die from it too. Pestilence looks upon her with sad eyes. Her bones are frail but her heart is strong. He cannot protect her. If her father was a better man, he could save her, but he will fall prey to the sickness of the mind. </p><p>These humans, they kill themselves and do not even know it. Pestilence looks on with sorrow. He has not taken a life for years. The clock on the far side of the waiting room ticks away and Pestilence shifts.</p><p>Pestilence could not leave if he tried. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>WAR is waiting. He is not the fire and blood and sulfur that many believe he is. He is not the cold of the trenches nor the blooming blasts of guns. That is the humans. War is sitting in the shadows of the ghetto. He has lost everything and nothing. War watches as young men and women charge forward to their deaths. They believe that there will be peace if they win. There is never peace. War is watching. He knows the pain of the fallen. He sees the anguish of their families. He cannot save them.</p><p> Humans run to their deaths too easily. They see it as brave and valiant. Their death will not be glorious as they believe. They will bleed to death in a cold ditch, polluted with bullets. They will regret leaving home. They always will. Fighting is pointless and only leads to tragedy. </p><p>War did not cause this. Once, he manifested in the form of glorious battles. Now he watches in horror as humans tear themselves apart. Their technologies and weapons of mass destruction will ruin the land. War is a killer, but humans? Humans kill ruthlessly and without cause. They have killed millions without his help. </p><p>War is with a mother and her children as they rush to avoid the fight. They ask to help him. He must not look more then twelve years old. He clutches the hand of the kind woman. He is scared. Not for himself, he couldn’t die if he tried. He worries for these people, fragile humans with hearts too heavy for their chests. If they somehow manage to flee this war, they’ll only find themselves in another. War follows the weak and lonely. They always find their way back to the fight.</p><p> He sighs as he looks upon the havoc. The woman questions him. Is he alright? Where are his parents? Is he lost? What is he doing here? </p><p>He isn’t quite sure, he tells her. He doesn’t have to be here. He could go anywhere. They no longer need him here. They fight on their own. Paranoia and fear worm their way into their hearts and corrupt their government’s. He wonders if its even worth it anymore. Humans will surely abolish themselves. </p><p>The woman is confused. She tells him that he must be in shock. She says its okay, war is scary, but he is safe now. She is right. It is scary. Terrifying, even.<br/>
War has not started a fight for centuries.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>DEATH has gone numb. Their feet hurt. They’ve been standing for too long. A long time ago they were supposed to guide lost souls to the afterlife. As it turns out, humans are very creative. They’ve carved their own path to the afterlife. They don’t need Death. Not anymore. </p><p>Death is lonely. Humans don’t talk to them anymore. They just pass by in the steadily moving line. They stare right through Death. As if they are nothing. Men, women, children, all crowding into the line of dead. It’s as if they just could not wait to die. Isn’t it tragic? Humans try their best to survive at any cost, but end up dying quicker than any other creature. Death feels like a judge. These people, they are guilty. They kill and are killed, circle of life.</p><p>An old man in an expensive Italian suit asks if this is the road to heaven. Death only laughs. They know there is no heaven by now. The man shuffles on. They wish they had the cliché scythe and cloak from human legend. Maybe they could scare these humans into moving faster. </p><p>Call them cynical, but Death has given up. They haven’t had to go down to earth for three hundred years. Humans must be just lining up to die down there. They haven’t had to reap anyone for three centuries. </p><p>Maybe the apocalypse has already started? Maybe its over already? Death doesn’t know. </p><p>Death has given up.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>POLLUTION wanders an empty forest. Nothing lives here. Once, it was filled with life. Love stories carved upon tree trunks and children’s footsteps echoing through the bushes and cattails. Now there’s no-one here except pollution. Her ebony hair is tangled with garbage and her once chocolate skin is smeared with dirt and oil. Her breathing is hoarse and laboured. Her steps are dangerously slow. Tears run down her face, black like mascara. </p><p>The world is dying. Humans are ruthless and cruel. Pollution’s name deceives her. She did not cause this. The garbage that swims in the oceans and crowds the fields was not her doing. </p><p>Sometimes children come to clean their parents mess. They never take enough home. </p><p>Pollution will not stop walking. She will never stop walking. Justice will never be served. Humans will be their own ruin. </p><p>Pollution wanders still.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>once again,, thanks for clicking, please leave your tips and/or tricks in the comments. </p><p> </p><p>remember to like, subscribe, and hit that bell to turn on notifications (:</p></blockquote></div></div>
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